


copper runs through your hair

by falindis



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fingon braids Maedhros' hair, Fingon is a supportive BF, Flower Braids, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maedhros has too much hair, Maedhros is insecure, Originally in Finnish, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Russingon, This is the softest thing I've written in ages, Translation, Wholesome, they're deeply in love, you will cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24218386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falindis/pseuds/falindis
Summary: After Thangorodrim, Maedhros gets used to life with one hand less. Swordfighting causes him no trouble, but braiding his hair is another thing. Fingon offers consolation along with a helpful hand.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 83





	copper runs through your hair

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Russingon fic. I wanted to write of Maedhros struggling with too much hair post-Thangorodrim, since as a thick-haired person myself I understand what struggles he must have gone through once he can no longer easily braid his hair. This was also a try at something very fluffy, since I'm primarily an angst writer, and this might just be the softest thing I've written in ages.
> 
> Originally in Finnish, translated into English.

Maedhros’ hair is in the way.

It falls upon his face in long red ringlets, blocking his view as he somersaults up, swinging his sword in a wide arch. It raises sweat on his skin as the sun beams hot on his back, stinging at his neck. It is in his mouth and his eyes and _everywhere,_ and it almost drives him mad.

Maedhros pushes his hair aside with his hand, but as if to torment him, it always falls back. The braid that he has crudely tied with one hand manages to hold only single strands. In the beginning Maedhros had the strength to swipe the stray locks back to place, but he soon gave up on the impossible task. Another lock falls between his eyes, and frustrated, he tosses his sword aside and quits.

The blade clashes on the surface of a stone, bouncing onto the soft grass. Just his luck. Of course he manages to hit the one single stone among a thousand stalks of grass.

 _Thank you, father,_ he curses silently.

“Careful, now!” a voice calls out behind him. Maedhros whips his head around in a red flurry, and behind thick tresses he faintly makes out the form of Fingon. The _noldo_ is dressed impeccably as always, wearing a brown leather vest and a blue tunic, glittering in the sunlight. Despite its length, his shiny, dark hair is held perfectly in place with a silver circlet and a set of flawless braids.

“What are you swinging at?” Fingon asks, a smile in his voice.

“Practicing”, Maedhros replies – suddenly interrupted by a fit of cough, as hair gets stuck in his throat. _“Was_ practicing.”

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes.” Maedhros kneels and picks up his sword into his left hand. He has already learned to use it better than he ever could with his right. If only he could handle his hair as well as his sword.

“It does not look that way.” Fingon steps closer: so close, that Maedhros makes out the constellations in his eyes. His warm hand caresses Maedhros’ cheek, and the redhead leans against it. “Tell me, Russandol.”

“This is silly”, Maedhros replies. “It wouldn’t interest you.”

“Now _you_ are being silly. I will always listen to you, regardless of how foolish you will sound.”

Maedhros laughs dryly. “You make it sound like I do that often.”

Fingon blushes and then corrects himself. “I did not mean that. Now I was the fool.”

“You’re forgiven.” Maedhros sheaths his sword and then wraps both of his hands around Fingon. It still feels strange – the fingers of his left hand rest gently on Fingon’s lower back, when the right stump simply lies uselessly next to it.

“It’s my hair”, Maedhros admits. “It’s constantly in the way. It disturbs my practice.”

Fingon cracks a smile as his eyebrows curve in sympathy. His gentle fingers creep from Maedhros’ cheek to his hair, bury themselves in the tangled tresses. “It truly is plentiful.”

“Really”, Maedhros replies, trying to look serious but failing miserably. Fingon’s smile simply broadens.

“It has grown back well”, he continues. “Am I imagining, or has it always been this red?”

“You are”, Maedhros answers with a shudder, as Fingon’s words drag old memories back from Maedhros’ mind. He still recalls the cold dark of Thangorodrim: the pain, desperation and humiliation. There his hair was cut, along with his pride and his sense of _self._ Although it was a long time ago, Maedhros still remembers it like yesterday.

“I could braid it for you”, Fingon offers. The gentleness of his voice pulls Maedhros back to the light. “If you allow me.”

Maedhros obliges with a sigh. He sits upon the soft grass and allows Fingon to smooth out his tangles, to wove beauty in the midst of the chaos. His fingers caress Maedhros scalp lightly, and each touch makes sparks dance upon Maedhros’ skin. He closes his eyes and allows himself to be carried away.

“Your hair is like a living flame”, Fingon’s voice flows like water in Maedhros’ ear. “I love it.”

Maedhros hums. “That’s just flattery for the sake of it.”

“I mean it, truly. It is beautiful. Like every part of you.”

Maedhros takes a deep breath. Although there is no lie in Fingon’s tone, it is still difficult to believe that he would speak true. That someone could truly love someone like Maedhros: someone cursed with misfortune and maimed with so many scars.

“I don’t believe you”, Maedhros whispers.

Fingon’s fingers freeze, stop. Maedhros opens his eyes, and from the corner of his vision he sees Fingon let go, move his hands upon Maedhros’ shoulders. Fingon circles in front of him and kneels down on the grass, his eyes now level with Maedhros’ own. His gaze is dark as the night.

“Maedhros”, he speaks, a hardness in his tone. Fingon only rarely uses his name like this; only, when he is truly serious.

“Your clothes will be ruined”, Maedhros scolds. “And the braid is still unfinished.”

Fingon shakes his head. “It is already done. And do you truly believe that I care about my clothes? No. I care about _you,_ Russandol, only you. I love you, do you understand? Now and always.”

Maedhros wishes to protest, but Fingon stops him with the touch of his lips. Maedhros surrenders to the kiss, and for a heartbeat everything is brighter: the sunlight, the sound of birds, the rush of blood in Maedhros’ veins. Although he would not believe Fingon’s words, this is what he believes in: the depth of his kiss, the warmth of his skin, the strength of his arms.

This time Maedhros’ hair stays out of the way, as Fingon has bound it tight – just like he binds Maedhros to himself now.

“You are perfect”, Fingon whispers against Maedhros’ lips. “Look.”

Maedhros lets Fingon lift him from the grass and lead him to the edge of the glade, where a tiny creek runs. From those blue waters Maedhros sees his own reflection, and his breath catches at the sight. The braid begins high from his forehead, curling its way down to his neck and cascading further onto his back. Fingon has laced tiny, red blossoms among the strands, their shade perfectly in tune with Maedhros’ hair.

“It is… beautiful”, Maedhros manages. “Thank you.”

Fingon squeezes his hand and caresses it with his thumb. “Anything for you, my heart.”

*

The next day Maedhros practices again. Fingon’s braid keeps his hair in place, although single strands already escape onto his forehead. Maedhros practices until all his muscles ache, until every pore of his skin gleams with sweat. In the end he washes up at the small creek, carefully not to ruin his braid. Before rising to dry himself, he dares to steal a glance over his shoulder at his own reflection.

Before that moment, he cannot even remember the last time he has dared to look at himself in the mirror without feeling disgust. He has only seen the scars, the shadows beneath his eyes and his ribcage. But now, for the first time in ages, a trickle of light seems to run by their side.

*

Maedhros’ hair is in the way, again. He coughs and spatters it away from his face, but each time it returns to torment like flies. The braid Fingon had woven lasted for three days, but now Maedhros’ hair has returned to his natural state. Sometimes he considers cutting it to be rid of this bane, but that would bring up too many memories. So he lets it be.

“Calm now, Russandol, lest you wish to take out your eye.”

Maedhros stalls and puts down his sword. The summery wind carries Fingon’s voice across the glade, tickling his ear with the softness of a touch.

“Have you come to ruin your clothes again?” Maedhros asks.

“Not this time”, Fingon replies. He closes the distance between them, but does not face Maedhros head front. Instead his hands find their way to the back of Maedhros’ neck and beneath his hair. Then he does _something,_ and suddenly Maedhros’ hair is no longer in the way. It stays in place.

“What did you do?”

Fingon’s fingers return to Maedhros’ neck. There is a small, audible _click,_ and Maedhros’ hair runs free again. Fingon’s hand moves to offer Maehdros a small, coppery piece of metal, shaped akin to a butterfly or bird with open wings.

“You’ve brought me… jewelry?”

“That is no jewel. It is a hairclip. I have seen you struggle with your hair and how difficult it is for you to braid it. Thus I wanted to give you something that does not require too hands to operate.”

A warm feeling creeps inside Maedhros’ chest as he accepts the small gift. Carefully, he sets it into place using just his left arm, and as if by trick of magic, it snaps into place. Only a few locks remain at his forehead, but it is better than nothing. Perhaps several of these could get rid of that problem as well.

“Fingon…” Maedhros begins, and tears of joy blur his gaze. “This is the perfect gift.”

“It has to be, for that is what you are.” Fingon caresses his neck. “Now you can always remember that – even when I am gone.”

Maedhros falls silent. There are so many things that he wishes to say, but there are no words to describe the feeling that now hums inside him. Thus he simply answers Fingon’s touch, pressing his head against the darker _noldo’s_ chest. It feels clumsy at first, for Fingon is much shorter than him, but Maedhros does not mind. At that moment he cares not, whether they would be seen, or what others would say.

They simply are.


End file.
